Shore Leave
by The Real Muse
Summary: Sometimes things just don't go the way you planned.
1. Default Chapter

Shore Leave  
  
By: CindyR  
  
Commander Chip Morton barely restrained himself from whooping with joy as he checked Kowalski's name from the list. That was it -- the last sailor on official leave. Now it was his turn. Kowalski hefted his sea bag higher up onto his shoulder, then paused, one foot on the ladder. "Uh, Mr. Morton, Sir?"  
  
He fixed his superior with such an innocent look that Morton immediately went on alert. "Something on your mind, Ski?"  
  
The sailor shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, Sir, I just figured if you weren't doing anything over the weekend...my, uh, sister is flying in from Florida, and...."  
  
Morton gulped, barely restraining the instinctive urge to cringe. Kowalski had somewhere picked up the notion that his superior officer and his sister would suit perfectly and had spent nearly two years attempting to get them together. Unfortunately for his plans, Morton had once caught a glimpse of a picture of Janet Kowalski, and had mistaken it for a photo of a short ottoman. It took an effort to appear properly regretful, but somehow he managed. "Sorry, Ski, but I'm going to be very tied up this weekend. Madalyn." He described a pair of parabolas in the air, and Ski grinned knowingly.  
  
"Oh, Madalyn! Not Cheryl this time out, eh?"  
  
Chip's brow furrowed. "I don't think so. I was sure it was Maddy this week." A mischievous light twinkled in his arctic-blue eyes. "Maybe I'd better check my book -- just to be on the safe side?"  
  
"Might be a good idea, Sir."  
  
Chip grinned. "Have a good leave, Ski."  
  
"No problem there, Sir," and he was gone, the smell of his aftershave wafting through the hatchway after him.  
  
Chip double-checked the manifest before signing the bottom. All he had to do now was to turn some reports over to the Captain and he was off for a well-deserved ten days of fun, sun and Madalyn. He-- Oh, no! Morton stopped cold. He'd forgotten -- his parents were flying in ... was it tomorrow? No, today! They'd timed their visit to Chip's sister to coincide with the end of Seaview's voyage hoping to spend some time with their eldest -- and favorite -- son, namely Chip. It would be wonderful to see them again, Morton reflected. He'd make the drive to Los Angeles early tomorrow, maybe pick up a good wine to take along....  
  
These pleasant plans were interrupted by a light touch on his elbow. "S'cuse me, Mr. Morton. Message for you, Sir."  
  
Morton nodded the relief crewman away before unfolding the message. It was from Madalyn. The airline had changed her schedule -- she was off to Paris tonight and not due back until sometime next week. Could she see him next leave instead?  
  
Morton crumpled the paper, images of long, tanned legs and bouncy blonde hair popping like soap bubbles. Blast! He'd been looking forward to seeing Maddy. A lot. Now....  
  
He shrugged philosophically. No sense brooding over what couldn't be helped. Besides, there was still titan-haired Cheryl who'd be very glad to see him indeed! Chip brightened. He could call her when he reached his apartment in Santa Barbara, make sure she was available tonight. Cheryl -- all right!  
  
Whistling a merry little tune, Morton made his way through the deserted corridors, enjoying the unusual peace and quiet. Even the steady throb of the great engines was mute. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. He laughed aloud. Merry Christmas, Mr. Morton! And Cheryl is just the present I would have wished for!  
  
Stopping before an innocuous-looking door, he rapped once before peering around the jamb. Blue eyes twinkled affectionately at the muttered cursing emanating from the direction of the desk. "Lee?"  
  
"... politicians, ..keelhauled...." The grumbling trailed off as the room's occupant became aware of another presence. "What..? Oh, Chip, come in."  
  
Morton took two steps into the cabin before stopping aghast at the stacks of papers and reports piled high on the desk, on the bed, on the floor.... "What is all this?" he asked incredulously. "Looks like something exploded in here."  
  
"Yeah -- me." Crane shifted a stack of reports to the floor, allowing Chip to perch on one corner of the desk. "Where do these, ..civilians," he practically spat the work, "get off trying to tell the Admiral what's necessary to run this sub? Look at this." He shoved an official-looking document -- they were all official looking documents from what Chip could see -- under Morton's nose.  
  
Morton retreated. "What is it?" he asked suspiciously.  
  
"That is a list of proposed budget cuts due to affect the operation of this sub. They," his tone left no doubt as to whom "they" night be, "have decided that the Admiral should switch to a cheaper contractor for replacement steel plates for the outer hull. Notice -- cheaper, not better." He gestured toward a stack of reports on the bed. "That's a list of equipment and supplies they say we don't need and won't supply unless I can come up with reasons why we do"  
  
"It figures," Morton said sympathetically. Like all Navy men, he had little-to-no patience with the land-bound bureaucrats who controlled the purse strings. "After all, it's not their lives on the line out where one faulty hull plate could be all that stands between a man and the deep."  
  
"No, it's not." Crane slapped the paper onto a pile already listing alarmingly off center. "They -- " He broke off, running a weary hand through his dark curls. "Oh, what's the use. If the Admiral can't convince them, they're not going to listen to anything I have to say."  
  
"Maybe, but if anyone can make them listen, it's Admiral Nelson."  
  
Crane allowed a small smile to touch his lips. "That's the truth." He sighed. "What can I do for you, Chip?"  
  
Morton apologetically laid a new stack of papers in front of his dismayed Captain. "I brought the Chief's analysis on that damaged ballast valve, the liberty manifest and the end-of-voyage maintenance reports."  
  
"Oh." Crane's shoulders slumped a little further. "Looks like it's going to be a late night tonight." Again, Morton added silently. The last voyage -- a long and highly dangerous one-had elicited many late nights for them all, but especially for Lee on whom the primary responsibility for the mission had directly fallen. As the Exec, Chip had done what he could, but he lacked the necessary security clearances such as were held only by Crane and Nelson himself, to handle more than the sub's routine functions this time out. Of course now that they'd made port, it was a whole new ball game.  
  
"Is there anything else that needs to be handled tonight, Chip?" Crane reached for the uppermost sheets, starting slightly when his wrist was encased in a firm grip.  
  
"There's nothing there that needs to be handled tonight, Lee." Morton regarded his friend critically. "When was the last time you slept?"  
  
Crane gently tugged his wrist free. "Budget report first."  
  
"Lee, that report isn't due for two weeks," Chip pointed out firmly.  
  
"But the Admiral--"  
  
Chip cut him off. "The Admiral is flying to Chicago tomorrow afternoon to visit his sister." Morton rifled through a stack of files. "As a matter of fact, none of these are due before he gets back in two weeks."  
  
"The CS-7 forms -  
  
Morton laughed, shaking his head in affectionate exasperation. "You never could get the hang of all this, could you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
Chip laughed harder at the puzzled expression in the hazel eyes. "Look, buddy, while you were traipsing around the world on those glamorous, exciting little jaunts for Naval Intelligence.:  
  
"Glamorous?" Crane interrupted incredulously.  
  
"...I was working my way up the ranks using the more mundane aspects of command procedure, including learning how the bureaucratic mind works," Morton finished with a flourish. He paused.  
  
"And?" Crane prodded after a moment.  
  
"And none of these are really due tomorrow no matter what they tell you. Next week at the earliest. Plenty of time tonight to get out and do something about that headache of yours."  
  
"How did you know -- ?" Lee caught himself. "I mean, I'm fine."  
  
Morton raised one sardonic brow, adequately expressing his thought on that subject. He'd seen Crane stubbornly repeat that phrase right up to the time he collapsed. "Really?"  
  
They stared at each other for a total of thirty seconds before Crane surrendered. "All right, all right, Doctor Morton. I give up. I'll get some rest tonight."  
  
"Now that's more like it." Morton shifted slightly, knocking a stack of requisition forms from their precarious balance. The pile tipped sharply to port and both Morton and Crane dove to their rescue.  
  
"Careful, Chip!" Lee straightened the stack, only to have another one to his right begin a steady slide toward the floor. "Blast. It took Yeoman Barette hours to get those sorted."  
  
He conscientiously realigned the files, allowing Morton an unrestricted moment to examine his friend. The heavy pressures of the past voyage had marked him, exhaustion drawing the youthful features fine. Though most people credited the Captain with a seemingly bottomless source of energy, Chip, who knew Crane better than anyone, was better informed. Lee would work himself to the point of collapse, and still he'd push himself unless someone kept a tight reign on him. That duty generally fell to his best friend and Executive Officer. And of course there was no reason to believe that Lee really would put the paperwork aside for the night....  
  
With a mental sigh, Chip consigned the energetic Cheryl to stand-by status. "By the way, you're coming drinking with me tonight."  
  
Crane shoved the pile further over, then shot his friend a suspicious look. "I thought you had a date with... what was her name? Maralyn?" he asked, and swung over a sheet covered with an illegible scrawl. "Who was on the helm last night? Chasteen?"  
  
"Madalyn, and Maddy's been called out of town tonight. Anyway, I want to check out this new club over on Cranmer Street. They say the girls there are not to be believed." He squinted at the crawled signature. "That's Crowley."  
  
"I'll believe them," Crane muttered darkly, "when I see them.:  
  
"What was that?"  
  
Crane tossed down the sheet and leaned forward rubbing at his back. "Remember the last time you said that? It was a bar in Morocco-"  
  
"That was not my fault!" Chip protested. "How was I supposed to know her father was the Chief of Police?"  
  
Crane sat back again. "I almost married her! Not that I wanted to marry her...."  
  
Chip grinned. "Yeah, but you escaped."  
  
"Barely." But Chip's grin was infectious and Crane soon found himself smiling back. "Okay, you win. Let's go check out this wonderful new night spot of yours. I can always get on to these reports in the morning."  
  
Morton studied the toe of one polished oxford. "Uh...no you can't."  
  
Lee waited.  
  
Chip waited.  
  
Lee broke first. "Well, why not?"  
  
"Don't tell me you've forgotten," teased Morton, who'd done the same thing himself. "You promised my mother you'd have dinner with us tomorrow. It's the traditional 'gathering of the clan,' remember?"  
  
Crane dropped his head into one hand. "Is that tomorrow? Oh, god, I don't see how I can make it, Chip. I've got so much to do...."  
  
"Lee, relax." Morton grasped one lean shoulder. "I'll show you a couple of shortcuts I leaned when I was assigned to the Pentagon. I guarantee this paperwork will be done long before deadline."  
  
Crane hesitated. "Well...."  
  
"Besides, Morn's kind of fond of you -- lord knows why. You wouldn't want to disappoint her, would you?"  
  
Crane shook his head firmly. "Not in a million years."  
  
"Then it's settled?"  
  
"You've convinced me." Crane stood up. "The budget can wait a couple days." He scrubbed one hand over his eyes. "And I can use the rest. God, I'm tired."  
  
"You're admitting it?" Morton whistled. "You must be in worse shape than I thought." He snatched up Lee's battered flight jacket with one hand, using the other to propel his friend to the door. "Come on, we're getting out of here now."  
  
"What's the rush?" Crane gasped, suddenly finding himself half-way down the hall.  
  
I don't want to give you a chance to change your mind, Chip thought. "I've got 8:00 reservations for dinner at Giancarlo's and the Golden Eclipse opens at nine."  
  
"Planned to the minute," Crane laughed, falling into his friend's stride.  
  
Morton ushered the Captain on deck. "Don't I always?"  
  
Crane smiled warmly. "Yes, I suppose you do. Efficient as always, Mr. Morton."  
  
Chip shrugged deprecatingly. "No sweat, Captain. After all, what's an Exec for?"  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter 2

The Golden Eclipse surpassed even Chip's optimistic expectations. Tables ringed a center stage where a woman in a tight sequined gown alternated singing popular hits with intimate little love songs to an enthusiastic crowd. It was already filling up -- fancily dressed men and women of all ages packed the room, talking, dancing and generally having a good time. Chip made a mental note to bring Maddy here next week...or maybe not. This seemed like a good place to meet women. Bringing his current lover here might not be too wise an idea.  
  
Even Lee had to admit that the women were everything Chip had claimed they'd be. Blondes, brunettes, redheads -- every one of them found their way to the bar at some time or other throughout the evening and that brought them into striking range for the two good- looking men. Chip had happily devotee himself to this feminine smorgasborg until he happened to notice Lee rubbing his temples when he thought no one was looking. Still have that headache, buddy? Chip thought, studying his friend surreptitiously. I know a great cure for that!  
  
It took well over an hour to accomplish, but at the end of that time, Morton had succeeded in getting his friend and Captain quite thoroughly soused.  
  
Not that that hadn't taken some doing. Imbued with the Navy traditions of discipline and control, Crane naturally resisted surrendering himself to the gin, but Morton persevered, and Crane succumbed. Unfortunately for Chip's plans, getting his friend drunk took considerably longer than he'd counted on and Seaview's Exec found himself more than a little affected as well. Since Chip's careful efficiency tended to disintegrate after the first half-dozen gin and tonics, planning went out the window and the two soon embarked on a round of good-old-fashioned bar hopping. They visited both favored old haunts and hole-in-the-wall dives they'd never suspected existed. Two o'clock found them at a shabby-looking tavern on the waterfront blearily contemplating life, the universe and especially dinner with the Morton family the next day.  
  
"...besides, I want a little support on my side when Mom starts trying to talk me into moving back to the Midwest and raising a family," Morton said, curiously watching an over-painted hooker zero-in on her prey -- a sailor of tender years and obviously no taste whatsoever.  
  
"But I thought your father was all for your posting to Seaview?" Lee fixed his friend with a blearily inquisitive gaze. "Has he changed his mind?"  
  
"He hasn't. Mom's probably changed it for him by now." Chip smiled. "Dad hasn't been able to refuse Morn anything in the last thirty-five years. No reason to think anything's changed at this late date."  
  
"They love each other very much, don't they?" Crane asked, picking up his half-filled glass.  
  
"Thirty-five years worth." But Chip caught a wistful note in his friend's question. "You're...not seeing your mother this time out?"  
  
Lee swirled his drink absently. "No. Not this time out."  
  
There was absolutely no emotion in that decidedly uninformative statement, but Chip caught the quickly disguised sadness in the hazel eyes. "Have you argued with her again?"  
  
Crane drained his glass in one large swallow. "Again? No, same old argument. She feels my place would be better served back in Boston as head of Father's corporation. Her words, not mine."  
  
"Still?" Morton leaned forward, attempting to meet his friend's eyes. "Lee, she's been saying that since the first day I met you at the Academy."  
  
"Don't I know it." The empty glass met the table with a clank.  
  
"She won't let it go, will she?" Morton asked sadly.  
  
Lee sighed. "Mother can be singularly... unforgiving when she puts her mind to it." He essayed a smile. "Times like that I wish I came from a large family like yours. Perhaps it would have helped to be able to spread the responsibility around a bit."  
  
Morton felt a sympathetic tug.. To Chip, a family was a big, warm noisy household full of love and cheer and good will. He'd never considered it simply as an expedience to spread around the "responsibility" or a tool to alleviate a parent's displeasure. He decided to change the subject to something more cheerful. "A big family, now, that's something else again if you're not used to it. Everybody talking at once, fighting over the bathroom...." He added with a a wink, "Of course, it had its advantages too. You always had someone to back you in a fight whether you were right or wrong. And we could scrape together the only one-family baseball team in town. Both sides'"  
  
He sounded so animated, that Lee was forced to smile through his depression. "It sounds great."  
  
"Yes, I suppose it is." He poured Lee a drink from the bottle on the table before upending it over his own glass. "Drink up. We'll order another fifth."  
  
Lee regarded his Exec with unfeigned respect. "Another bottle? Chip. I'm not sure.... I mean, where do you put it? I'm maybe...a little bit...drunk already."  
  
"A little bit?" Chip laughed out loud. "I should say you are. Well," he amended quickly before his Captain's scowl, "maybe we both are."  
  
"You don't look drunk," Lee accused, fixing the blond with a critical, slightly crossed glare.  
  
Chip managed a modest shrug. "Maybe it doesn't show."  
  
"It never does," Lee muttered glumly. "Doesn't matter how much you drink, it never shows."  
  
Morton, in the interests of friendship, forcibly swallowed his gleeful smirk. You never could drink, anyway, he thought, remembering more than one leave when he'd poured his friend into bed. "Matter of body weight?" he suggested tactfully.  
  
"A matter of...who?"  
  
"It's a proven scientific fact," Morton droned pedantically, "that the more you weigh, the better you can drink."  
  
If Crane noticed the heavily stilted speech, he made no sign. He considered the statement carefully and from every angle his sodden mind could manage, before shaking his head. "Won't work."  
  
"Why not?" Morton waved his handkerchief frantically until a waitress on the far corner deigned to notice him.  
  
Crane, watching these antics in puzzlement, took a moment before answering. "For...for one thing, you only weigh a few pounds more than I do. And for another...."  
  
"Yes?" Morton prodded.  
  
"Betty." Chip sipped his drink, fixing Crane with an inquisitive look. "Betty Coletta," Crane supplied. Chip waited. "Bettyl" Crane waved his hands, exasperated. "That little blonde from that London pub. The one that drank us both under the table and stole our -- "  
  
"Oh. Betty," Chip twirled his glass, annoyed at having his argument holed so thoroughly. "Forgot about her."  
  
"Wish I could." Lee gulped his drink down. "She took us like a couple of boy scouts."  
  
"Uh, I don't think boy scouts is a term Betty would have chosen." Chip chuckled. "She-"  
  
"Get you another bottle, mister?"  
  
Chip turned, looking up and into a pair of the most sultry brown eyes he'd ever seen. The look they gave him raised the temperature of the room several degrees on the spot. "You must be a mind reader, Miss," he smiled, adjusting his dangling tie. "We were just discussing the subject ourselves."  
  
"Uh-huh." The girl dimpled. "Haven't seen you two in here before. New in town?"  
  
"New in here." Chip turned up his best high-wattage smile. "And what's your name, pretty lady?"  
  
"Karlie." The girl bent a little closer. "And yours, handsome?"  
  
She directed another smoldering look into his direction, and for a moment Chip couldn't remember who he was. He sank into the pure sensuality of the woman, feeling himself undressed, examined and approved all in the time it took to regain his breath. He succeeded in rousing himself only when she repeated her question. "Uh, Chip Morton." He gestured vaguely in Lee's direction. "The quiet one over there's Lee Crane."  
  
She directed the full impact of those eyes in Crane's direction and Chip was gratified to see him thrown for a loss as well. "Hello, Lee."  
  
Crane reached for his own tie, forgetting that it now resided in his pants pocket. "Uh, hello."  
  
Karlie swept Lee's slender frame with a distinctly predatory air until Chip felt it prudent to reclaim control of the conversation immediately. He slipped an arm around her waist in a friendly gesture and pulled her down to perch in his lap. "So, tell me, Karlie, have you worked here long?"  
  
That worked. Karlie left off her catlike scrutiny of Crane and returned her attention to Morton. "A lot longer than I care to remember." She ran a hand up Chip's arm. "These are uniforms, aren't they? Navy uniforms? You an officer?"  
  
"Lieutenant Commander," Chip replied, preening. "I'm Executive Officer aboard SSRN Seaview."  
  
"The Seaview?" Her brow puckered prettily. "That's that big submarine from up the coast, isn't it?"  
  
"That's right. You're very well informed, I see."  
  
"Mmmmm." She twisted around until she could see Lee again. "What about your cute friend. He an officer too?"  
  
"Ummm, more or less." Chip spared his friend a mischievous grin before turning back to Karlie. "How much do you know about submarines, sweetheart?"  
  
She shrugged. "We get all kinds here. My ex-old man was stationed on an aircraft carrier once during the war. Saw a lot of action in Vietnam." She bent full lips close to Chip's ear. "You ever seen ... action, Chip?"  
  
Morton gulped. "I --"  
  
"That fish-face couldn't battle his way out of a geisha house."  
  
Chip couldn't sec the speaker over his feminine armful, but he could see Lee -- who'd been watching Chip's "land maneuvers" through hazily amused eyes -- straighten sharply and twist toward the source of the remark, three beefy Marines who'd been loudly making themselves obnoxious at the next table. Morton and Crane had so far been able to block out the interference. Chip had a feeling that that was about to change.  
  
"Lay off, Rocky." Karlie's pleasantly throaty voice hardened. "Gowan back ta your cheap booze."  
  
"Wasn't talkin' ta you, bimbo. I was talkin' ta the Navy there." Rocky slowly rose to his full height. From where Chip was sitting, still encumbered by Karlie's well-rounded weight, it looked more like a medium- sized mountain rising out of the sea. He gulped, then the burn of an adrenaline surge warmed his veins, sweeping the last cobwebs of alcohol from his brain. He could see Lee's face in profile; noted with satisfaction the sudden clarity in the golden eyes. Drunk, sober or half-dead, slip the possibility of a fight in front of the ex-Golden Gloves competitor, and Lee Crane seemed to come alive. Never one to sidestep a challenge himself, Chip disengaged his arm from the girl's waist and patted her off his lap.  
  
"We're not looking for any trouble," Lee attempted, more formality than conciliation.  
  
"Really?" The man-mountain sneered and Chip knew it was all over, but the action. "Too bad, kid, 'cause you got some."  
  
Not overly interested, but feeling compelled to ask anyway, Morton went for the obvious question. 'What's your beef, Marine?"  
  
"No beef, Blondie," the Marine said, hitching up his belt. "It just so happens that I don't like officers very much today. I get that way whenever I have to do time in the brig. Makes me mean."  
  
"No kidding," Chip muttered. "That's why we," the bruiser gestured to his now-standing companions, "are going to kick your asses." Chip rose, circling to the left of the terrible threesome while Lee mirrored his actions on the right, just in time! With a loud battle cry, Rocky stepped forward, aiming a beefy fist which would have taken Lee's head off had it connected. But Lee was no longer in range. Ducking under the swing, Crane kicked out with his left foot, catching Rocky square in the gut, bracing himself before the bruiser could recover and then swinging a tremendous right onto the point of Rocky's pugnacious jaw. The force of the blow threw him back across the table and two chairs to lie stunned against the far wall, out of the fight for the moment.  
  
That was all Chip had time to see, for by then he was busy fending off one of Rocky's buddies, a powerful-looking negro wearing neither insignia nor name tag. Chip had no opportunity to disapprove the Marine's negligence in the matter, however, for almost before he could draw breath the man was upon him, forcing him back against the bar in a rush. Chip brought both hands up, breaking the negro's hold, then delivered a powerful blow to the man's unprotected abdomen. The black grunted under the impact, then straightened slowly. "Oh, boy," Chip breathed. Obviously the powerhouse was as strong as he looked.  
  
The Marine circled, made wary by the unexpected strength in Morton's punch, but still secure in his own abilities. He closed again and they traded blows, most of them deflected by the other's guard. However, by the time they separated again, Chip noted with satisfaction that the black had one eye swollen almost shut. Chip wiped an arm across his streaming nose, wincing at the blood now staining his sleeve. Well, it wasn't the first time it had been broken. It probably wouldn't be the last, either.  
  
Acting instinctively, Chip fell into a classic karate pose, prepared when his opponent tried the earlier lactic of using superior size and strength in a forward rush. It was the guy's undoing. Chip caught one arm as he passed and twisted, adding a hefty boost to the guy's forward momentum. The black took off, flying head over heels to slam hard into the side of the bar. He landed in a heap and lay there, out cold and out of the fight.  
  
Chip lifted his arm in a cocky salute before turning to check on the progress of the other half of his team. Lee wasn't doing quite so well with this opponent as he had with Rocky. Rocky had walked right into a sucker punch he'd remember, and regret, for the rest of his life. This guy was cooler, better prepared than was Rocky and out-weighed Crane by at least thirty pounds to boot. And, worst of all, he was smiling.  
  
"Not bad, Navy boy," the thug grunted, barely avoiding Lee's best haymaker right. "Not good enough, either." He stepped forward, feinting with his left, then delivering two fast rabbit punches into Lee's ribs, striking home with bone-jarring intensity before Lee had a chance to retreat. Desperately, Crane lashed out, catching the Marine a solid blow on the side of the head, staggering him long enough for him to back away out of range.  
  
They stood there, panting heavily and regarding each other with respect blended with a good dose of healthy hatred. "I'm gonna take you apart for that, Kid," the thug managed. "Ya hear me, punk? You're dead."  
  
Lee wiped blood out of his eyes from a cut just below his hairline and pushed himself upright and away from the wall. "You can try," he gasped, challenge lighting his features. "But don't count on it." The Marine smiled again and closed with surprising speed, but this time he found Lee ready. Dancing gracefully out of range, Lee changed tactics, dropping to send a powerful side-kick to his opponent's stomach, shifting onto the other foot to catch the thug a forward kick in the groin. The Marine doubled over with a groan, allowing his slighter foe to deliver the coup de grace -- a magnificent uppercut which traveled nearly from the floor. Even from where he was standing, Chip could hear the jaw snapping like kernelled corn. The Marine dropped as though pole axed.  
  
"Lee?" Chip kicked a broken chair out of the way, reaching his friend just as Lee's legs buckled. "Are you all right?" He slipped an arm around the other man's waist, grunting as he was forced to support his entire weight for a moment. Then Lee got his legs back under him and straightened.  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine." He pulled away but made no protest when Chip left one supporting arm around his shoulders. "What about you?"  
  
"A little the worse for wear." Chip suit fled, then managed a rueful smile. "Better than the other guy, anyway."  
  
"You've got to get out of here." Chip felt a frantic tugging at his sleeve and nearly staggered as Karlie attempted to drag him bodily towards the door. "The owner's called the cops! Get ou!i"  
  
"I'd say that's our cue, Lee." Morton urged his friend toward the door. "Think you can make a run for it?"  
  
Crane straightened determinedly. "Watch me."  
  
Unfortunately, determination will take a man only so far, even less when it's through a living wall of bone and muscle clad in the uniforms of the local police department.  
  
Lee sighed deeply, wincing when the action aggravated his damaged rib cage. "Any more bright ideas, Mr. Morton?"  
  
Chip raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "Not at the moment, Sir. Except that we go peaceably. I'd hate to have my nose broken twice in the same night."  
  
Even he was shocked. He didn't know Crane could curse in that many languages.  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

The Santa Barbara drunk tank wasn't any worse -- or better -- than any other drunk tank they'd ever been a guest of, but a jail is, after all, still a jail. Add to that the after-effects of both a night of industrious.' imbibing and a lively round of fisticuffs, and you have the recipe for two very unhappy men indeed.  
  
By the grace of the fact that most of the "tank's" inhabitants occupied the concrete floor of the cell, Crane and Morton found themselves the sole possessors of the hard wooden bench against the far wall. Chip sprawled gracelessly, leaning his head far back to prevent his nose from starting to bleed again. It wasn't broken, he decided. Hurt like the devil, but not -- quite -- broken.  
  
Beside him, Lee sat nursing his damaged ribs, slumped shoulders adequately testifying to the depths of his discomfort. His cheek sported a bruise the size of his palm and blood from the cut over his eye had run down to stain his collar. All in all, Chip reflected, his Captain looked awful. Another moment added the prayer that he wouldn't have to look in too many mirrors for a while himself.  
  
The harassed and overworked SBPD had had little time to do more than a preliminary booking, although they had allowed the arrestees their constitutionally-protected one phone call. This had elicited much haggling between the two men.  
  
"You want to call the Admiral?" Lee regarded his Exec with an expression of dawning horror. "Have you any idea what he's going to say when he finds out!"  
  
"And who would you suggest we call?" With the alcohol finally milking its way out of his system, Chip's pragmaticism was slowly making its reappearance. "Tish and Angle both have families and we can't exactly call my Mom."  
  
Crane raised his hands in a desperate gesture. "What about.. .what about that Madalyn you're seeing? Can't she...?"  
  
"Maddy's out of town," Chip patiently reminded him. "What about that blonde you were seeing. Julie? You said she was crazy about you."  
  
Crane looked uncomfortable. "Julie. ..uh, she...." He mumbled something Chip didn't catch.  
  
Morton bent down. "What was that?"  
  
"I said she got married!" Lee started to throw his head back in a defiant gesture but thought better of it when his ribs gave a warning twinge. He settled for a scowl.  
  
"Married?" Chip found it suddenly necessary to clear his throat, violently. "Oh, um, right." He recovered himself quickly, spurred on by a spirit of self-preservation. "Let's face it, Lee, leaving a message for the Admiral is the only thing we can do."  
  
"Not the Admiral." Lee crossed his arms stubbornly. "And that, Mr. Morton, is an order."  
  
Morton shrugged. "Who then?"  
  
Lee considered. "We'll leave a message for Angie at the Institute. She can bail us out and the Admiral won't have to know anything about it. I hope."  
  
That had been at 4:00 am. By six, the last of the gin had worn off, diffusing the semi-protecting numbness and leaving reality in all its glorious, unbuffered majesty. Six o'clock also brought the return to consciousness of several of the denizens of the tank. One in particular -- a large, leather-clad biker sporting a wiry full beard -- made quite a production of coming awake. He rolled over heavily on the concrete, leathers flapping around him. Suddenly he sat up with a jerk, supporting himself by leaning against Chip's left leg. Chip moved his leg. toppling the biker back onto the floor. He caught himself with a curse.  
  
"Hey, what d'ya think you're doin'?" the biker grumbled, regaining his equilibrium. "I...oh, man." He clasped both hands to his head. "What was I drinkin' last night? Sterno?" He obviously expected no answer to this. With another curse, the bearded man lurched to his feet and staggered over to one corner where he relieved himself in the filthy communal sink.  
  
"Ahhh, that's better," the man grumbled, gingerly rearranging himself before zipping. "Hey, you." He stepped across several still-sleeping bodies, stopping by the wooden bench on which Crane and Morton had remained all night.  
  
When the biker repeated his hail, Chip raised his head to find himself staring into two pig-like eyes set in a good 250 pounds of bone and gristle. Chip groaned. "Didn't the police arrest any little criminals last night?"  
  
The biker stared downward, dividing his scrutiny between Chip's wide-eyes gape and the top of Crane's bowed head. Chip felt himself being sized up, a lot like ... a terrible thought intruded itself . like Karlie had, last night? Chip shuddered and shook Lee lightly by the shoulder. "Lee?"  
  
"Hunh?" Crane raised himself from his stupor, fixing Chip with a bloodshot and decidedly unfocussed stare. "What is it, Chip?"  
  
Morton cleared his throat. "Uh ... someone wants to talk to you."  
  
"Who?" Crane asked innocently checking the floor.  
  
"Me," rumbled a voice.  
  
It took several seconds for it to register in Lee's muddled brain that that voice had come from above him. "What? "  
  
"I said, me," the voice repeated obligingly.  
  
The biker and Lee regarded each other in silence for several minutes during which time a slow flush worked its way into Lee's fair skin. He senses it, too, Chip thought. Feeling better now that he was no longer the primary object of the biker's interest, Chip sat back and prepared to enjoy the show. If nothing else, this was prime ammunition for the next time Lee dragged him into a mess. "What...." Crane swallowed heavily. "What do you want?"  
  
The leather-clad man leaned heavily against the wall. "What jail is this?" he asked, peering around.  
  
"Jail?" Crane echoed stupidly.  
  
"Yeah. The last thing I remember is cruisin' LA. Where am I now?"  
  
"This is Santa Barbara."  
  
"Santa.... Oh, man!" One massive fist impacted the wall with bone-jarring force. Lee flinched. "How'd I get here? Never mind." The biker ran his gaze up and down Lee's body again, then essayed what he obviously mistook for a friendly smile. "My name's Slash. You...eh...want a cigarette, ..or something?"  
  
Lee stared a full thirty seconds as the unsubtle undertones of this question sank in. "Oh, no, I can't handle this." He dropped his head limply into his hands. "Let me know when this day is all over."  
  
"Oh, I'd say it's just beginning."  
  
Lee's head snapped up. "Admiral?"  
  
"Admiral?" Chip leaped to his feet only seconds behind his Captain. Together they -- with not a small amount of trepidation -- crossed to the barred door separating them from a figure waiting none-too-patiently on the other side.  
  
Nelson regarded his officers with ill-disguised distaste. "Would one of you care to explain why I received a call from a newspaper reporter at four in the morning informing me that my command crew is in jail and would I like to make a comment?" Nelson's voice rose with each word until he was nearly shouting by the end. The effect on two particularly delicate constitutions was immediate and obvious. Both men winced -- not entirely in remorse -- at the tone. "A little hung-over, gentlemen?" he inquired dryly.  
  
Crane and Morton exchanged a look. This was going to be even worse than they feared. Morton cleared his throat nervously. "We...urn...ran into a little trouble, Sir."  
  
"A little trouble? Uh-huh." Nelson examined the younger men more closely. "What the devil happened to you two? You look like you've been through the wars."  
  
"That's ... close enough," Lee admitted ruefully. He attempted to straighten, then caught his breath at the pain in his ribs. "Like Chip said, we ran into a little trouble."  
  
"I can see that, Captain." Nelson simmered a full ten seconds before exploding. "How old are you two, anyway? Off ship twenty-four hours and I find you in jail after brawling in some cheap dive like a couple of common sea men. I -- " He broke off as the bearded biker, who had been listening to the tirade with great interest, stepped closer. "What do you want?" he asked coldly.  
  
The biker ignored him, addressing Crane instead. "Who's he, buddy? Your father?"  
  
"My. ..oh, god." This last was directed heavenward. In the mood the Admiral was in now--  
  
"His father?" Nelson's voice rose several decibels, anger and astonishment at the man's temerity waging war in his expression. Then the blue eyes narrowed, stabbing and holding the biker on twin lasers. "You," he gritted, "get out."  
  
The big biker met and held those icy eyes for several seconds before dropping his gaze and backed off. He returned to the wooden bench muttering little epithets under his breath.  
  
Nelson turned the full force of that gaze on the two hapless men before him. "Your father? Hummph. If I had an ounce -- just one ounce of sense, I ought to leave the pair of you right here."  
  
"No, Sir, you can't," Crane wailed, clutching the bars.  
  
This despairing cry elicited only another unsympathetic stare. "Oh? And why not, Captain?"  
  
Chip stepped forward. "Sir, you...uh. ..see that big biker-type in the corner?"  
  
Nelson transferred his icy stare to Morton. "What about him?"  
  
Morton cleared his throat. "He's been...uh...making a pass at Lee."  
  
The Admiral frankly gaped at that. "He...?" One look at Lee's flushed face and the way he glared murderous hatred into Chip's carefully expressionless features was more than even Nelson's righteous indignation could survive. His lips twitched once; the rumbling laughter started deep in his stomach and erupted into a helpless crescendo. Harriman Nelson threw back his head -- and roared.  
  
It was some time before he was able to bring himself back under control, though his speech was still punctuated by occasional chuckles. "Then I... ahem ...suppose I'm going to have to. ..do something to . to protect your virtue, Captain. I... I'd better go post bail." So saying he was gone, the sound of another bout of laughter following him down the hall.  
  
Lee wearily leaned against the barred door, shooting Chip another baleful glare. "I owe you for that, Mr. Morton."  
  
"What else could I do, Lee?" Chip affected an innocent air. "You heard the Admiral. He was going to leave us here."  
  
"I...oh, what's the use. All I care about now is getting some shut eye, and- "  
  
"Dinner," Morton enunciated clearly. "Tonight. With Mom."  
  
The silence which descended following this seemingly innocuous statement was terrible in its intensity "In all the time I've known you," Crane's voice was soft, quiet and very, very deadly, "I've never known you to be actively suicidal before."  
  
Morton braced at semi-attention, watching his commanding officer warily. "You promised my mother, Sir."  
  
The Exec knew that to be a low blow. Ever the gentleman, Crane would have moved heaven and earth to avoid offending his best friend's mother, of whom he was quite fond, as would Chip himself. Chip knew he'd won when he saw the tension drain from his friend's features, replaced by a weary resignation. "Oh, all right," he relented, sliding carefully back onto the bench. "But I owe you for this, Chip."  
  
"I don't know about that," Chip ventured, reseating himself as well. Crane fixed him with a suspicious glare. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
Morton shrugged. "I'd say that after what you got me into in Hong Kong, we're just about even now."  
  
"Oh, no, Mr. Morton," Crane growled, poking Morton in the chest. "We're not going to be even to this for a long time to come."  
  
Chip flinched at the tone; something told him things were going to be a little...tense, ..for a while. A things considered, however, he figured it might just have been about worth it.  
  
FINISH 


End file.
